When He Comes Back
by boogima
Summary: Elizabeth Bennet lives in Kent, near a coastal town called Meryton. Across the Channel an evil little man is harbouring delusions of grandeur. A small what-if in five parts about what might have happened if E and D had met on the eve of World War II.
1. Part 1: Elizabeth

_author's note/disclaimer: all the characters belong to JA, all grammar mistakes, historical inaccuracies and other errors, however, are entirely mine. please, please review. pretty please? with sugar on top? it would be great to have some feedback, especially since this is my very first longer story:)_

**When He Comes Back**

There had been a ball at Netherfield on the night before Bingley and Darcy left for the army. She could still see it all. Caroline Bingley in her sleek purple silk gown laughing loudly at something that wasn't funny. The way her mother's cigarette flipped precariously up and down in her hand when she was giving away a particularly juicy piece of gossip. How Jane's eyes glistened with tears when she thought of Bingley fighting the Germans.

But most of all she could see Darcy. In the darkness of the hall, just before he left, he had grabbed her by the shoulders, kissed her fiercely despite her resistance and whispered: "When this war is over I will come back. And you _will_ love me." He had left without another word and she had stood in the dark, her lips burning, seething at his words. The gall of that man! And yet…

**Part 1: Elizabeth**

_4 June, 1940. Meryton, Kent._

Elizabeth sat on the windowsill looking at the sea. Her eyes were tired from squinting at the horizon. No more boats. No matter. There had been so many of them in the days that had passed since she started her vigil. Surely he'd been in one of them. Tens of thousands of men, they said. _Surely_ he'd been one of them.

She thought it odd that she'd gotten herself in such a state in so short a time. It had been almost a year since she last saw him. She had spent a better part of that time being angry at him. For months she had seethed at the way he had acted. That he had dared to propose to her after what he'd tried to do to poor Jane. Most ardently, indeed. The man knew not the meaning of the word love. Or so she'd thought.

Four months into the dreadfulness they called the war a letter had arrived. _The_ letter, the one that had changed everything. It had looked so inconspicuous, a battered envelope on the kitchen table when she came home one evening. She now knew it by heart.

So many times she'd thought over their acquaintance. It seemed so different now that she looked at it. Before, she'd seen contempt and disapproval in every word, in every look. Now she knew differently.

She smiled to herself as she remembered one particular moment, early in their acquaintance. She'd been so sure he'd resented her then with every fiber of his being. She, Jane, Bingley, Darcy and Caroline had been on their way to a dance in Meryton. He'd scoffed and huffed at the thought of going to a dance but agreed as soon as Caroline Bingley had announced her intentions of staying home to spend a quiet evening with him. They had still been far from the village when the car had broken down. Desperately trying to appear manly before his beloved Jane, Bingley had popped up the hood and looked at the engine deep in thought before admitting with a rueful smile that he knew nothing of cars. Darcy, with much less grace, had been forced to admit that he knew no more than his friend. Elizabeth, however, did.

She had discovered some tools in the trunk and expertly located and fixed the problem in less than twenty minutes. Darcy had stood next to her the whole time, flashlight in hand, with an unreadable expression on his face. When she had finished, her cheeks had been red with excitement - and her hands covered in engine oil. Silently, Darcy had offered her a handkerchief which she had thoroughly stained without much benefit for the state of her hands. Back in the car, Darcy had, in a surprising show of graciousness, offered to first drive Jane, Bingley and Caroline to the dance and then take Elizabeth back to Netherfield to clean up. Caroline, of course, had been much against the plan, but had been overruled by her brother.

On their way to Meryton Elizabeth had sat in the front, next to Darcy, trying to keep her hands in the air so as not stain her dress. Bingley, always eager to give compliments where they were due, had laughingly admired her accomplishments in the art of automobile repair and eagerly questioned where she had acquired her knowledge. Elizabeth had explained about the repair shop her uncle Gardiner owned and how she had been much more prone to spend time in there as a child than to play with dolls with Jane and their aunt.

Caroline had sneered - an auto repair shop, how quaint - and wondered aloud at the ladylikeness of such pastimes. Bingley had defended Elizabeth, reminding her sister that if not for her unexpected talents, they'd all still be stranded at the side of the road. Darcy had not said a word. In an attempt to gain his support for her cause, Caroline had then noted that Darcy surely could not imagine her own sister engaging in such pursuits, to which he had curtly replied that he most certainly could not. Caroline had been satisfied by his reply, and at the time Elizabeth too had taken his answer as a sign that he deemed her not very ladylike at all. Her suspicions had been confirmed when, on their way back to Netherfield, he had not said another word to her.

Now, however, she knew he had been so grave and quiet for another reason entirely.

Elizabeth leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Downstairs Mr. Churchill's deep voice boomed in the wireless. _Wars are not won by evacuations_. How true. Even if he was one of the thousands and thousands of men evacuated from the beaches of Dunkirk, the chances of their meeting again were slim. The soldiers were returning, but the war was not over. They would have to go back and fight Hitler to the bitter end. Or, worse still, the Nazis could come here and then what would become of them? There was already talk of invasion and Meryton, right at the southern coast, would certainly not survive it.

Elizabeth shook her head with a rueful expression. This was not at all like her, when had she become so gloomy? Perhaps, she thought, it had happened on the day she had seen Second Lieutenant Charles Bingley step off the train in Meryton station, bags under his eyes and face unshaven, looking years older than the last she'd seen him.

Another image came to her, unbidden, of a smiling Charles Bingley, cajoling his friend into asking Elizabeth to dance. There had been talk of newcomers in Netherfield and then one evening, at a dance, a young, eager-looking man with bright blue eyes and equally bright red hair had come up to Elizabeth and Jane, introducing himself as their new neighbour, Charles Bingley. He'd dragged with him a dark, brooding man and a young woman who had bright red hair just like Charles but obviously a much less bright outlook on life. His best friend William Darcy and his sister, Caroline, he'd said. They'd barely looked at the Bennet girls.

Only moments after setting his eyes on her, Charles Bingley had fallen madly in love with Jane Bennet. He'd whisked her away and danced all night only with her. Elizabeth had danced with several local boys but had also had plenty of time to just sit in their table and watch amusedly as the happy couple stared dreamily into each other's eyes. At some point, however, Charles had apparently become remorseful over stealing Elizabeth's sister and had attempted to right the wrong by asking his friend to dance with her. It had been, Elizabeth now realized, a defining moment in her relationship with Darcy. After that, every little thing he ever said or did had in her mind been interpreted with this one, careless remark in mind. _Tolerable_ he had declared her, not realizing she was sitting just a few tables away, and certainly not beautiful enough to change his mind about dancing. _He_ was not in the mood to entertain girls who were slighted by other men.

Her surprise, of course, had been great when only a half an hour later he'd sought her out and asked her to dance. The memory of his astonished face when she had refused him in no uncertain terms still made her smile.

They had become a sort of a group after that first night, an odd one to be sure, but a group nevertheless. Both Netherfield and Longbourn, the home of Elizabeth and Jane's family, were situated fairly far from Meryton and it seemed natural that the young people of both houses would end up spending a lot of time together. It had mostly been due to Jane and Bingley's budding relationship, of course. Elizabeth had hung along because she liked spending time with Jane and Charles. Caroline had hung along because Darcy did. Why Darcy had hung along had been a mystery to her. He'd always seemed to be brooding, never saying much unless she managed to rile him up enough to start an argument, which seemed to be often enough. Sometimes she had thought he almost seemed to enjoy arguing with her, so easy it was to fish him into one debate or another.

Many an afternoon had been spent lazily that summer, idling in Netherfield's garden, going for a swim in the nearby river, cycling to Meryton or driving around in Bingley's old Wolseley. During those days, Darcy had developed an annoying habit of staring at her. Trying to find fault in her, she'd always supposed. Sometimes she'd caught him staring at Jane and Charles too. What fault could be possibly be found there, she'd wondered. They were the perfect couple. She'd found out the answer about a month before the war was declared.

The atmosphere had been heady. It had been the hottest summer anyone remembered in a long time and the looming war made everyone feel oddly lightheaded. Charles and Darcy had been talking about enlisting and Charles had got it in his head that if his youthful dalliances would be coming to an end with the war, he would go out with style. A party, he'd decided, would be just the thing. A big farewell party to him and Darcy, and to every other young man who would be leaving soon. He would invite everyone. Everyone.

A few weeks before the party Jane and Elizabeth had invited their friends to dine in Longbourn. Most all of their time that summer had been spent outside or in Netherfield. Bingley had met the rest of the Bennet family only briefly and Darcy and Caroline not at all.

All morning Elizabeth had had a feeling that something bad was going to happen. The first foreboding event was the announcement their father had made during breakfast. Their cousin, Bill Collins would be coming for a visit. Elizabeth had groaned. She had been fifteen when she'd first met Bill Collins, and she still cursed the day. His father and hers had been estranged many years ago and the Bennet sisters had never so much as laid eyes upon their only cousin. Then one day he had appeared at their doorstep, with a bouquet of flowers in his hands, announcing he had come to heal the breach, offer an olive branch and all sorts of other nonsense.

And then, after having spent a few days with them, he had announced over dinner that he thought the best way to unite the family again would be for him to marry one of his fair cousins. Elizabeth's mother had been delighted with the idea and Elizabeth's father had coughed in his napkin, thinking it was too good a joke to be put to an end before it had even begun. Elizabeth and Jane had been horrorstruck when, after making his announcement, Bill Collins had turned towards them, looked at them appraisingly, and declared that – after she was of age of course – Elizabeth would have the honour of becoming his fiancée.

Elizabeth still shuddered in anger as she remembered the day. Not only had she felt acutely mortified for being subjected to such a ridiculous display but moreover, she had been utterly disappointed by her father. Instead of coming to her aid, he had watched amusedly as her cousin, five years her senior, had leered at her and her mother had tittered excitedly of the benefits of the match. Elizabeth, of course, had made her disgust over the plan immediately known to all and, as any young lady in a similar situation would, had run upstairs to her room, hot tears running over her face. Jane had later told her that their cousin had found her tantrum "charming" and declared that she possessed just such a spirited character that his great friend Lady Catherine de Bourgh had told him to look for in a wife.

In the years that had followed, Elizabeth had felt the betrayal of her father keenly. Every time her foolish cousin had visited them, Elizabeth had had to fend off his wooing and when he never seemed to realize she was in earnest, she had time and time again asked her father to talk to him, always in vain. So, when four years after the first meeting, her father had announced that Bill Collins was coming to visit them yet again, Elizabeth had known without a doubt that nothing good could come out of it.

Bill Collins had arrived a few hours before Darcy and the Bingleys. By that time the entire household had been in an uproar. Her mother had been giving Jane orders on what to wear, as if Charles had never seen her before and what Jane wore on that particular evening could have crucial impact on their relationship. Her youngest sisters Kitty and Lydia, sixteen and fifteen, had been suffering from an apparently endless fit of giggles and her fool of a cousin had been following her around like a lapdog. Elizabeth had waited for the arrival of their guests with an impending sense of doom.

And, it had turned out, she had been absolutely right. The whole evening had been a cataclysmic disaster. When their guests had arrived, her cousin had introduced himself as her fiancée. Though she had been hasty to correct him, Caroline Bingley had been head over heels with that announcement, questioning her cousin about his plans for marriage, the mocking contempt of her queries completely escaping her cousin. Darcy had spent half the evening staring out of the window and the other half staring at Elizabeth and her enthusiastic _fiancée_ with such a cold and disapproving glare that even Elizabeth had been surprised.

All through dinner her mother had dropped not too subtle hints about marriage to Jane and Charles and questioned him about any other rich friends he might have. Charles had borne it all with good grace but his friend had seemed appalled by the inquisition. Elizabeth had thought she might die of mortification when her mother had encouraged Lydia to sit next to Darcy in the dinner table. She had batted her eyelashes at him with all the might of a fifteen-year-old and made all sorts of flirtatious comments. He had barely deigned her with an answer and had been so red in the face that Elizabeth had thought that if the whole situation hadn't been so thoroughly embarrassing, she might have found his reaction quite hilarious.

Elizabeth flushed as she remembered her family's actions on that fateful evening. She was certain, that had her family made an agreement to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit – or finer success. They had been utterly, completely vulgar. She still could not forgive Darcy entirely for the comments he'd made later that evening, or during his proposal, but she could now understand why he'd made them. To attach yourself to such a family would be unthinkable, he'd told Charles on the porch as they'd left that evening, unaware that through an open window, Elizabeth could once again hear his every careless word. And even though a few weeks later he himself seemed to have gotten over the unthinkability of such a course of action, he had still harboured serious misgivings about the suitability of her family.

During the days between the disastrous dinner and Bingley's party, Elizabeth and Jane had hardly seen the inhabitants of Netherfield. Charles had called on them only once, alone and strangely subdued. When they'd gone to Netherfield, nobody had been home. Twice, Elizabeth had encountered Darcy when she'd been out walking. She had seethed at him, sure that he was the reason for the sudden distance Charles was keeping, and he had made her some strange, unconnected questions. Had she thought of what she would do after the war? How did she like London? He'd given her a whole speech about the quality of universities in Derbyshire. She wondered now she had not realized where he had been headed with his questions. Consumed with anger, she had answered his queries in clipped tones, finally silencing him unexpectedly by remarking that perhaps he'd be better off questioning Bill Collins, he was her fiancée, after all, and surely she would be going where ever he bid her. She had expected a sarcastic reply to her joke or at least a roll of his eyes at the mention of her odious relative, but instead he had stopped in his tracks, given her the strangest of looks and disappeared, not to be seen again until the morning of Charles' party.

Shivering, Elizabeth wrapped herself tighter in the quilt she had around her. It was getting dark and she could barely see the sea anymore. The windowsill felt cold under her. For a hundredth time she wondered if he'd been in one of the boats she'd seen in the past days. He must have been. She knew not how she felt about him now, it was all so muddy and confusing. That she was angry at him no longer, she was sure of. The last traces of her anger had been wiped away when Bingley had arrived on a short leave, about a month after the letter, begging Jane's forgiveness for his cold behaviour before. She was sure it had been _his_ doing. But other than that, she could not tell. Was it possible to learn to like a man in his absence? To be sure, she had neither known him nor liked him when she had last seen him. Was it possible that she knew him now? Or was this new idea of him just a fabrication of her mind, just as false as the one she'd had before? She knew not. All she was sure of was that she had to see him again. If for nothing else, then to apologize for the cruel things she had said.

Her eyes turned from the sea towards the rocky beach that spread before her in the quickly diminishing light. She winced as she remembered his face as she'd left him there, the penultimate time she'd seen him. The last time had been in Netherfield, just before he left…

Her musings were interrupted by the opening of the door and the blinding flood of light to the room, the beach and the sea suddenly disappearing from her vision, replaced by darkness. In the open doorway stood Jane, catching her breath:

"Lizzy! He's come!"


	2. Part 2: The Proposal

_author's note: thank you all so very, very much for the __encouraging reviews on the first chapter, they really made my day:) (and I'm super glad that my English seems to be up to par in your eyes, it is indeed not my native language but one I've studied at school and I'm forever perusing the dictionary for the right words, always worried that I'm going to end up with something completely wrong and ridiculous.) for those of you who asked, I can promise that there will be a certain letter for you to read at some point in this story, not today, but eventually:) part 2 lays out the proposal and is slightly different in style than the first part, I guess, as it's more "traditional" and also looked at without the benefits of hindsight, unlike the events in the first chapter. in this chapter, I've borrowed lots and lots of stuff almost straight from JA and I'm not entirely sure if it works. but for better or for worse, here goes:_

**Part 2: The Proposal**

_28 July, 1939. Meryton, Kent._

Elizabeth sat on the beach, her eyes on the waves. It was the morning of the Netherfield party and the atmosphere in Longbourn was hectic. Her mother had been fussing over Jane once again. Even she had noticed that in the recent days, Jane and Elizabeth had spent less time in the company of the inhabitants of Netherfield than was their wont and had decided to lecture Jane on her apparent inability to _secure_ Charles before he went away. Who knew how long the war would last, her mother had said. If Jane could not make Charles propose before he left, his interest might wane. Or worse yet, he might not be coming back for another reason entirely and if that were the case, it would be best if they were married before he left. Poor Jane had been in tears. It was bad enough that Charles had been acting so oddly cold and distant. To add to that the idea that something might happen to him in the war was too much to bear. Elizabeth had scolded her mother and taken Jane upstairs and comforted her until she had fallen asleep on the sofa in the room the two sisters had shared ever since their younger sisters were born. In an attempt to avoid her mother, she had then slipped out of the back door and walked to the beach.

The waves were crashing on the shore in an even, lazy pace. She closed her eyes and listened to the sea, trying to calm herself. She did not know what to think of the recent events. She liked Charles but his sudden reticence was making her sister miserable. Could he really be so easily swayed as to change his mind simply because his haughty friend did not approve? And if he was, what did that say about his character? About the steadfastness of his affections? Did she even want her sister involved with someone who could so easily fall in and out of love? And what about Darcy? What sort of a cold and unfeeling man was he to do such a thing to his friend and her sister? To involve them both in a misery of the acutest kind, simply because he disapproved of her family? It was insufferable!

The sudden sound of footfalls approaching alerted her from her thoughts but she kept her eyes shut determinedly, hoping that whoever was coming would realize she wished to be alone and go away. Almost as if the person coming had heard her thoughts, the steps suddenly stopped. It was quiet for a moment and then she heard them slowly receding. Before she could rejoice in her restored peace, however, the comer seemed to change his mind and suddenly the footfalls were approaching again, this time at a rapid, determined pace. Sighing, she opened her eyes to see who it was. She was surprised to see the face of William Darcy staring down at her, only a few steps away.

"Darcy?"

"I wish you would call me William."

Elizabeth got up, dusting her skirt, ignoring his reply.

"Why are you here? Has the party been cancelled?"

"I…" he started, and then suddenly looked her sharply in the eye. "Why would the party be cancelled?"

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders, returning his stare with a defiant one of her own. "I just thought, since we haven't seen you much recently, that perhaps Bingley had changed his mind. That perhaps he now thought that giving a party to such people as are found around here would be _unthinkable_."

Darcy fleetingly thought there was something in her words that sounded familiar, but he was too distracted by his own thoughts to recognize it. Why was she behaving so oddly? She seemed almost hostile. Or was she just trying to fish him into another debate? At a moment such as this, as if this wasn't difficult enough already?

Elizabeth watched as Darcy wrung his hands, seemingly distracted. He was certainly in a mood today. Without a word, he started pacing back and forth in the sand in an agitated manner. Just as Elizabeth decided she'd had enough of his strange behaviour and made an attempt to leave, he stopped all of a sudden, grabbing her by her arms, a fierce look in his eyes.

"Elizabeth," he almost choked on her name, "It will not do!"

She stood, looking at him, stupefied by the unexpected turn of events. His grip was so hard it was almost painful, his face so close she could feel his breath. _What will not do?_ she wondered. _Charles and Jane?_

Before she could form a reply, he continued, encouraged by her silence. The words rolled out of his mouth in a quick, agitated rush, as if he did not think of them at all, as if he was struggling to get them out before he changed his mind about whatever he was planning to say.

"You can't marry that toad of a cousin of yours! Elizabeth, I won't _let_ you."

Astonishment seemed to have robbed her of words and she could only keep staring at him, her mouth agape. _Marry Bill Collins? What on Earth was he about?_

"I know, I know I shouldn't be doing this. Believe me, all summer long I've tried to fight it. But it feels like you've put a spell on me and I seem to be unable to shake it off. I've tried to reason with myself, to remind myself that we come from different spheres and it would go against my family's expectations, my better judgment, to choose someone like you. What my family would think of me, handing the Darcy legacy in the hands of a simple country girl with a mercenary mother willing to throw her daughters on the path of any rich man that happens their way? And just to think if my aunt Catherine would see you, your hands six inches in engine oil, every feeling revolts! Heaven and Earth, she would undoubtedly say, are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"

He let out a rueful laugh at that thought and Elizabeth felt a sudden wave of nausea hit her. Was this some sick joke he was playing on her? But he was not done and she stood, paralyzed by his absurdity.

"All these concerns seem perfectly natural and just when you're not around, but Elizabeth, I feel that every time I see you, reason evades me. My feelings simply cannot be repressed. You must, I'm sure you _must_ know that I love you? Most ardently! Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand?"

His last words were finally enough to shake her out of her stupor. He _loved_ her? And _this_ was the manner he chose to tell her about it? It took all of her self-discipline not to slap him squarely on his cheek.

"Enough!" she cried, "Unhand me at once!"

He recoiled, almost as if she _had_ slapped her. She suddenly realized he'd had no doubt of a favourable answer. This angered her even more and all the compassion she might have felt for having to hurt his feelings was instantly gone. Could he possibly expect _any_ woman to react favourably to such a proposal, let alone herself? Had he no sense of how offensive he'd been?

She tried to compose herself enough to answer him with patience, but as soon as she heard her voice, shaking and resentful, she realized all efforts at calmness were in vain.

"The honour, you say? What honour could there possibly be in accepting a man who claims to love me against his reason, even against his will?"

She saw his face paling, but he said nothing so she continued.

"I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I apologize if my refusal should cause your pain, but then again, I'm sure that the feelings which you've said to have prevented the acknowledgement of your regard before today should help your overcome it quickly enough."

As she pronounced these words, Darcy again changed colour, surprise and resentment fighting an obvious battle in his every feature. Struggling to appear composed, he said nothing for a few minutes. Then, with a forced air of calmness, he replied:

"And this is all the reply I'm going to get? One might wonder why, with so little endeavour at civility, I'm rejected. But it is of no importance."

If she'd been angry before, she was now furious. How thick could he be?

"_I_ might as well wonder why, with so evident a desire to insult me, you chose to tell me you liked me against your better judgment? Was that not some excuse for incivility, if indeed I was uncivil? But I have other reasons to dislike you, you know I have. Even if _I had_ liked you before, which I most certainly did not, do you think that any consideration could've tempted me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of my sister?"

She paused, noticing that he was listening to her tirade with no feelings of remorse apparent on his face.

"Can you deny it, Darcy?" she cried, indignant, "Can you deny that you're responsible for Bingley's recent behaviour?"

When he replied, his voice was tranquil to such an extent that she felt a sudden urge to throttle him.

"I have no wish to deny it. Towards Bingley I've been kinder than towards myself. "

Her face grew red hot with anger. There he stood, supposedly claiming to love her, yet at the same time confessing to separating her sister and Charles from each other, without a morsel of regret.

"You did not just say that! Are you completely obtuse?"

She saw him start at this, but before he could reply, she continued:

"You are the most insufferable, unfeeling man I have ever met! From the very first moment I met you, your manners have impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others! Ever since you first laid eyes on me, you have done nothing but stared at me disapprovingly and argued with every single opinion I ever pronounced!"

"And this," cried Darcy, his tranquility gone, taking hold of her arms once again, his expression stormy, "is your opinion of me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to your calculations, are heavy indeed! But perhaps my offenses might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honesty in admitting my scruples about our relationship? If I had seen fit to flatter you with the idle compliments I've seen your cousin use? But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Could you honestly expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose manners are so thoroughly disgusting and vulgar?"

Darcy paused as the sudden realization that he'd gone too far hit him, and he instinctively let his hands drop, releasing her from his grip. Never in his life had he beheld anything more frightening than the cold anger in her eyes, and the icy calm of her voice as she made her reply chilled him to the bone.

"You are mistaken if you think that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might otherwise have felt refusing you. You could not have made the offer of your hand in _any_ possible way that would have tempted me to accept it. You, sir, are the last man in the world I could ever marry."

Her posture was rigid as she straightened her shoulders and turned towards the house, willing the angry tears not to come.

On the beach he stood and looked after her, with a growing feeling of nausea. What had he done?


	3. Part 3: Darcy

_author's note: thanks again for your reviews for the previous chapter, they are very, very much appreciated:) I might do some rewriting on chapter two at some point, if I come up with anything__, since, as snowtigress suggested, it might fall better in with the rest of the story if it was a little more me and a little less austen. as to how the rest of this tale is going to proceed, I must say that while I had the first two chapters and parts of the third mostly finished when I started posting, chapters four and five are planned but as of yet unwritten, so it might take a bit longer for me to get them out there. not much, I hope, but a little._

_(edit: oh, and not to forget to give credit where it belongs, i've borrowed one little line from anthony minghella's cold mountain, as i simply couldn't resist. i've marked it with an *)  
_

_but anyway, here goes part 3, what do you think? enough darcy? (as if there could ever be such a thing)_

**Part 3: Darcy**

_4 June, 1940. Dunkirk, France._

Darcy stood in the water, shoulder deep, soaked to the bone. His boots felt heavy and the salty water stung the wound in his leg. His right arm was draped around Bingley who was leaning on him heavily, his teeth clattering.

"Hold on, Charles. It won't be much longer."

A ghost of a smile appeared on his friend's tired face.

"Y-you said the same thing t-two hours ago."

Darcy tightened his hold around his friend. He was right, it had been too long. Bingley was barely conscious and he himself wasn't faring much better. Hundreds of men stood around them, all tired from the wait. He wondered how many of them would succumb to exhaustion before they could get on the boats. He knew that all that was keeping him and Charles upright was his willpower and it was weakening by the minute.

He fixed his gaze on the horizon and summoned up all his determination. He was William Darcy of the Pemberley Darcys and he sure as hell would not give up. If he had to stand there, supporting the weight of his friend, until judgment day, he'd bloody well do it. He _would_ go back. He'd made a promise and he intended to keep it.

Concentrating on _her_ image he tried to chase away all thoughts of his present predicament. He'd done it a thousand times in the months gone by, conjured up her face to remind himself why it was so important that he'd get through the war in one piece, had imaginary conversations with her in which she was always eager to forgive him his former stupidity and welcomed him with open arms. Imagined her small, warm form pressed against his on a cold night. _She_ was the place he was headed.* If only he could keep that in mind, he could survive anything. Hell, he could _swim_ across the Channel, if that's what it took.

He thought of the dance in Meryton, the very first time he had seen her. He had been in the blackest of moods. Three months earlier, he had watched his childhood home, his parents' legacy, burn down to the ground, almost taking his sister with it. He shuddered to think what might have happened had he not returned home in time to get her out safely. Together they had stood on the lawn of Pemberley, watching as the flames consumed it, despite the best efforts of the firemen. There were no words to describe how he had felt that night. George Wickham was fortunate to have been arrested and thrown into jail before Darcy had got his hands on him.

As soon as he'd got over the first shock of it, he had determined to rebuild everything, brick by brick. But there was a war coming and it was not a time for rebuilding. So he and Georgiana had gone to live with their aunt Catherine and their cousin Anne - the only family they had left. Three months he had spent in his aunt's house, listening to her endless complaints about how he had been so careless as to let that blackguard Wickham burn down the house that had been the pride of the family for so many generations. As if it was his fault, as if he could've somehow prevented it. Georgiana had been happy in their temporary home, growing closer to her cousin by the day. Darcy, on the other hand, had felt much like a caged animal. When Bingley had written to him, to invite him to his new home for the summer, he had seized the offer like a man drowning.

Unfortunately, he'd forgotten about Caroline Bingley and the fact that staying with Bingley meant staying with her as well. So there he had been, almost as worn down by her ceaseless flirtations as he had been by his aunt's tirades, standing in the corner of a small-town dance hall, sulking, when Charles had spotted the two girls he'd been told were his new neighbours. Reluctantly, he'd allowed Charles to drag him closer, not sparing another look at the girls when his friend had made the introductions. It was enough of a burden to have to tolerate Caroline's advances, he didn't need any more fawning female acquaintances. Especially ones that were, if he'd heard correctly, the daughters of a local pig farmer.

He winced as he remembered the comments he had later made to Charles about Elizabeth, when Charles had tried to get him to dance with her. If only he'd spared her more than a cursory glance before he'd opened his big mouth. It had been only a half an hour later that he'd realized that she, with her laughing eyes and carefree air, seemed undoubtedly one of the most enchanting women he'd ever laid eyes on. But it had been too late then, he now knew, for she had heard his every word.

He wished that he'd been more observant. That he'd seen her impertinent remarks for what they were, instead of thinking she was flirting with him. That he'd realized that the fire in her eyes had been born rather out of annoyance than of passion. Sure, he'd looked at her, but had he ever really seen her?

He remembered one particularly hot day, early in June. Elizabeth and Jane had cycled to Netherfield that morning, as was often their wont. Bingley, who had the day before discovered an old croquet set, had suggested they play a game. Caroline had declined, stating that lawn games were for children. When everyone else had decided to play, however, she had deigned to come to the garden with them and had sat in a garden chair in the shade of the trees lining the lawn, giving imperious advice on where to place the hoops, as if she knew anything about the game. Darcy had briefly thought she had looked much like a younger version of his aunt.

The game had not lasted long. As the sun had risen higher up in the sky, the heat had become more and more unbearable. After less than a half an hour they had, at Elizabeth's suggestion, decided to give in and abandon the game in favour of a swimming trip. Caroline had been hard pressed to get on a bicycle, but when she'd seen that Darcy was going to go, she'd climbed on the saddle, a dark expression on her face, casting an angry glance towards Elizabeth. Darcy had read her mind as easily as if her thoughts had been written on her face: How was it that Elizabeth Bennet seemed to somehow manage to get William Darcy to take part in all manner of vulgar activities?

A small river, or rather a stream, ran between Netherfield's lands and the much more insignificant property of the Bennets. It was there that they had gone that day, Jane and Elizabeth arriving a little later than the others, having made a little detour to get their bathing suits. There was a tiny pier at the river bend, an old wooden structure with a few weatherworn wooden chairs. Caroline had placed herself on one of the chairs, opting for sunbathing instead of swimming. Jane had dragged Charles a little to the side and he had whispered something in her ear, making her blush furiously. Darcy had guessed that Jane, ever demure, had been shy about taking her dress off. Elizabeth, however, had had no such qualms. She had hung her flowered dress on the handlebar of her bicycle, donned a white swim cap to protect her hair, walked straight to the end of the pier and, in one fluid movement, jumped in the water.

Darcy had stood still for a long moment, looking after her, mesmerized both by her lithe, slender figure and the confident grace of her movements. Elizabeth, in her white suit and that ridiculous cap, jumping in the water had been the single most bewitching thing he'd ever seen.

Later, Darcy, Charles and Jane had sat on the pier, drying off after the swim. Elizabeth had still been in the water, leaning against the pier, her chin resting on its edge. Darcy had mentioned a novel he'd finished the day before, addressing his words mostly to Charles. He had been in the middle of describing how very impressed he'd been by it, when he'd suddenly been interrupted by an audible sneer coming from the general direction of Elizabeth. _Oh please_, she'd said, _A Farewell to Arms is as pathetic as it is poorly written. If you wish to read Hemingway, try The Sun Also Rises._ It had been an obvious challenge and one he'd been unable to resist. A heated debate had ensued on the merits of the two books, mostly between Elizabeth and Darcy, only interrupted after Caroline, unable to long take interest in any conversation that didn't directly involve herself, had finally declared she could take no more of sitting in the sun and demanded that they all head back home.

This had not been the first or the last time Elizabeth had challenged his opinions and Darcy, in his misguided arrogance, had always thought she did it to impress him, to flirt. Oftentimes he'd been fairly sure that she had even been professing opinions that were not her own, merely to garner his attention. It had been this mistaken notion that had led him to believe that she was expecting for his addresses, hoping for them. That under the enchanting, witty exterior, she was just like any other woman, hungry for his attention. That the decision was his and his alone and that if he ever deigned to ask her, she'd be his for the taking.

His thoughts were disturbed when Bingley sagged against him, his body suddenly limp on his arm. Unsure if he'd lost consciousness or simply fallen asleep, he shook him forcefully.

"Bingley! Charles! Wake up!"

His efforts were rewarded when his friend stirred and his eyes opened.

"Sorry, old man, I must've dozed off for a minute."

Darcy sighed in relief. It would not do to pass out now, not when they were so close to getting home. But Bingley looked so pale it had him worried. His lips were chapped and his eyes glazed under the drooping lids. Darcy wished he had some water, even a few drops to give to his friend. They'd had none since yesterday morning. Reaching his other hand to touch Bingley's forehead Darcy realized that though he had been freezing earlier, he was now running a fever.

Bingley let out a mirthless chuckle. "Stop fussing like an old lady, Darce, it doesn't suit you. I'm fine, just a little tired."

Darcy tried to laugh at his friend's attempt at a joke. He could not. Adjusting his hold on him he repeated his previous promise:

"Not much longer Charles, just hang on. I'll get us on the next boat, I promise."

Darcy thought about the wound in his leg and prayed he would be able to keep his promise. It was not very deep and at first he had not been worried. But this morning he had taken the bandages off to see how it fared and, though he was no medical expert, he was fairly sure it had become infected. In a moment of panic, words like necrosis and gangrene had crossed his mind, but he'd immediately pushed them away. To Charles he'd said nothing, no use in worrying him about something he could do nothing about.

Closing his eyes he tried to find another memory to concentrate on. Images of her furious face on the beach as he'd proposed to her came to him unbidden, but he expertly blocked them, trying to focus instead on something more pleasant. Many months he had been consumed by those images, at first angry at her for her accusations but quickly redirecting all the anger towards himself. How could he have said all those things to her? How could he have even thought of them? No wonder she'd called him prideful and conceited. He had been nothing but.

In a desperate attempt to redeem himself in her eyes at least a little, he had finally written the letter. He had no idea how it had been received by her, or if she'd ever even got it for that matter. But writing it had been a cathartic experience none the less. Into the pages of the letter he had poured all the things he wished he'd said to her during their acquaintance. And though there was no explaining away the things he _had_ said, on that fateful morning on the beach, he'd tried anyway. And when he had finally sealed the letter and sent it off, he had allowed himself to hope again.

A faint smile crossed his lips as he remembered the day the old Wolseley had broken down halfway from Netherfield to Meryton. He still couldn't believe she'd fixed it. He remembered standing next to her the whole time, ostensibly to hold the flashlight but in all honesty, just to gawk. He'd tried to convince himself that the sight in front of him was just the proof he'd needed: As lovely as Elizabeth was, she was a pig farmer's daughter who could fix cars. She simply wasn't suitable and he needed to stop thinking about her fine eyes before he got himself in trouble. But he hadn't been very convincing. So when she'd finally got up and turned to him, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright, it had been all he could do not to reach out and touch her, to feel the soft warmth of her face under his fingers. In retrospect, he was glad he'd tried nothing of the sort. He would probably have ended up with a black, oily handprint on his cheek where she'd slapped him.

Back in the car he'd been beside himself with confusion. His head had told him he'd be better off spending as little time in her company as possible, yet his traitorous mouth had voiced the suggestion to drive her back to Netherfield after they'd taken the others to the dance. He'd vaguely registered the conversation about Elizabeth's mechanical abilities, all the while trying to figure out what the hell he would say to her when they were left alone in the car. When Caroline had asked him if he could imagine Georgiana fixing a car, he had answered with unthinking honesty: He could not. The idea that it might not be such a bad thing if Georgiana _could_ do such things had already been slowly forming in his head, but he had not been ready to admit it, not even to himself.

The drive back to Netherfield had proved to be one of the more embarrassing moments of his life. There he had been, tongue-tied like a smitten schoolboy, unable to come up with anything rational to say, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he'd blurt out a confession he was not willing to make. So he had just sat there the whole way, silent, stealing glances at her when she wasn't looking. What an idiot he'd been.

Started from his thoughts by the sudden flurry of movement around him, Darcy realized that another smaller vessel was approaching. There seemed to be more of those than the day before, commercial and private boats by the looks of them, come to the aid of the army at its most desperate hour. Getting the men on the larger warships was a slow process as the ships were unable to come very close to the shore. There was a small harbour where the big ships were more easily able to pick up the evacuees, but it had already been packed with men when Darcy and Bingley had arrived at the beach and they, like thousands of other men, had decided that trying to get in from the water was their best bet. And now one of the smaller boats was approaching them and Darcy, looking at his pale friend leaning on his shoulder, drifting in and out of consciousness, decided that they had waited long enough.

Determined, he grabbed a tighter hold of Bingley and started pushing forwards, towards the little boat that was quickly filling with soldiers. The men before them gave way to them, seeing the poor condition Bingley was in. But the distance seemed insurmountable and Darcy was tired. His leg, though it had felt blissfully numb when he had been standing still, was now burning with pain and the fact that he had managed to stand on it the whole morning suddenly seemed unfathomable. By the time he finally reached the boat, it was full, dozens of men packed on the deck like canned sardines, and preparing to leave.

"Wait!" he shouted, desperate, his voice hoarse.

A man on the deck heard him and turned in his direction, spreading his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Sorry man, this one's full."

"Please," he shouted, gesturing towards Bingley, "just one more. I don't think he can wait much longer."

The man on the deck looked at Bingley's white face for a moment and then turned to the men behind him.

"Come on boys, give me a hand, there's one more we need to take."

Darcy sighed in relief and started hauling Bingley towards the boat. With a joint effort he and the men on the deck managed to lift Bingley onboard. Just as he released his hold on his friend, Bingley's eyes opened. Darcy smiled at the best, most loyal friend he'd ever had.

"Cheer up, old man, you're going home."

He watched as Bingley's tired return for his smile turned into shock as the fact that Darcy had said _you_ instead of _we_ registered into his consciousness. But the boat was already moving and there was nothing more to be said. Keeping the smile on his face, Darcy lifted his hand in goodbye. Bingley, with a bemused expression on his face, did the same. And then he was gone.

Darcy limped a little backwards and turned his eyes again towards the horizon, just staying up on his feet taking all his concentration. The pain in his leg was searing and he felt utterly, completely exhausted. _Not much longer. Just hang on._

As he opened the door to Netherfield's library he saw Elizabeth, sitting in his favourite leather armchair, her feet tucked up next to her, wearing the pale yellow summer dress he had always loved so much. Rays of the afternoon sun seeped through the window, playing in her hair. Her brow was knit in concentration, the left corner of her mouth turned up in some private amusement, as she perused the volume in her hands. He could've just stood there all day, spying on her, taking in every little detail of her. But the door creaked and suddenly her eyes were on him. He felt his heart might burst out of his chest as she smiled at him, a sweet, radiant smile, just for him. Her voice was so soft, barely a whisper, when she came to him, wrapped her slender fingers around his hand and said:

"There you are, love, I've been waiting for you."

The horizon seemed to be swaying and the water enveloping Darcy felt suddenly very warm and inviting. Maybe he could close his eyes and rest for a while, only for a little while. There would be another boat soon. He felt tired. So very tired.


	4. Part 4: The Letter

_author's note: as always, thank you so much for the reviews, keep them coming because they keep me going:) a few of you mentioned atonement and it got me thinking that perhaps, in addition to stating in the disclaimer the obvious fact that the story is based on P&P, i should also have mentioned the WW2 stories that have inspired me to write this particular story, namely atonement, which i loved, both the book and the movie, and bbc's fabulous foyle's war. i also thought it might serve as a point of amusement, at least for anyone who's ever watched foyle's war, that when I started writing a WW2 –fic, i was actually going to make it a P&P/foyle's crossover. i had a big, crazy plot planned where wickham was smuggling nazis into britain under the cover of the dunkirk evacuation, with the unwitting aid of lady catherine. in this storyline, bingley was DCI bingley, elizabeth his perky driver and darcy a brooding, grumpy detective from scotland yard, invited by bingley to help solve the smuggling mystery. luckily, i quickly realized that it was a) ridiculous and b) never going to be finished, so i dumped that storyline and decided to go with this one instead:)_

_but i'm blabbering, let's get on with the real story…_

**Part 4: The Letter**

14 December, 1939.

Dearest Elizabeth,

Please do me the honour of reading this letter. I know you probably want nothing to do with me after the ignoble way I've treated you, but I'm hoping your curiosity will prevail. If, after reaching the last lines, your feelings are still what they were last July, you can toss this missive away and never think of me again. I can't promise to do the same, for I find that you are always on my mind, but if it is your wish, I will never bother you again.

I know there can be no way to take back the things I said to you on that day on the beach, no way to unsay what's been said. It shames me to think how I acted, and not a word was said by you that I didn't deserve. I was vain. Selfish. Ungentlemanly. Somehow I had made it through my twenty-four years without anyone calling me on my behaviour. As a child, I had been given good principles, but when my parents died, was left to follow them in pride and conceit. My aunt Catherine encouraged me in this, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing. To care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of other people, of their sense and worth compared to my own. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased. If I am a better man now, it is because of you and you alone.

In addition to pointing me the faults of my character, you accused me of separating your sister and Charles. For this I can offer no apology, though I'm sorry to have caused you pain. Bingley is like a brother to me. Next to my sister (and though I know you don't wish me to say it, yourself), he is the person I care for the most in the world. When, soon after we came to Meryton, he became infatuated with your sister, I saw nothing I hadn't seen before. Bingley is easily infatuated, often falling in and out of love, and it wasn't until much later in the summer that I realized that this time was different, that this time he was very much in love and very unlikely to ever fall out of it. Afraid that my friend might get hurt, I watched Jane, most carefully. And the more I looked, the more it seemed to me that her feelings weren't touched nearly to the level my friend's were. She was all that is kind and amiable, but I saw in her none of those symptoms of a person in love that were so plainly visible on Charles' face every time he was in her company. You, of course, know your sister's heart better than I and if it is as you say, that she is as heartbroken over Charles as Charles has been over her, then I am truly sorry. But what I did was done out of love, in an attempt to protect my friend, and for that I can't feel sorry. Moreover, if the situation was reversed, I feel sure you yourself would act the same way.

There was, of course, also the matter of your family. It pains me to offend you, but I wish to be honest. It was unbelievably rude of me to address the matter the way I did on that day on the beach, and I admit that in my arrogance I was prejudiced to think meanly of them simply because of their situation in life. But even had I come to your home with a more open mind, I don't think I would have felt differently about them. Your little sisters were wild and rambunctious, and I was surprised by the fact that your father did absolutely nothing to check their behaviour. But it was, above all, the conduct of your mother that finally convinced me of the need to intervene before Bingley got himself any more involved. Believing in your sister's indifference, I had the unhappy thought that she might accept a proposal from Charles simply because your mother demanded it, wishing to catch herself a rich son-in-law. I could not allow it.

Guilty as I am for the other charges you laid at my door, there is one accusation you made that I believe I can easily acquit myself of. You said that from the beginning of our acquaintance, I had done nothing but stared at you disapprovingly and argued with your opinions. For weeks I wondered how you could possibly have thought that, but then it came to me: you must've heard me talking to Charles on that very first night. Elizabeth, I'm sorry. I was in a horrible mood that night, determined not to enjoy myself. I had not even looked at you when I said those words. Believe me, when I did look, I found you anything but merely tolerable. You are beautiful. For many months now, I have found you without question the most bewitching woman I've ever met.

So if I stared at you, it was not out of disapproval. I quite simply couldn't keep my eyes off of you. Remember that time I drove you back to Netherfield after you fixed Bingley's old Wolseley? I was so spellbound by your presence, so befuddled over being all alone with you for the very first time, I'm surprised I managed to keep the car on the road with what little attention I was paying on where I was driving. You can't believe how idiotic I felt when I realized that we had arrived in Netherfield and I hadn't managed to form a single coherent sentence to say to you. There seemed to be only three words in my vocabulary that night and I'm sure that if I'd opened my mouth, they would've burst out immediately. I now rather wish I'd done just that.

About our arguments, I enjoyed them immensely and I thought you did too. You'll think me a vain fool when I say this, but I actually thought you were flirting with me. Never in my life had anyone challenged me so openly – and so winningly – and I was always waiting for another debate with you, another chance to be the object of your sharp wit and clever arguments.

So there it is. I have said my piece and can now only hope that it has gone at least a little way to redeem me in your eyes and make you understand why I've acted the way I have. You are in my heart, all the time, and I can't bear the thought of you, somewhere in this world, thinking ill of me.

I know I said that if, at the end of this letter, you thought no better of me, I would never bother you again. I now realize it was an empty promise and one that I fully intend to break. Because Elizabeth, I love you. And I will come back to you. If only to give you the chance to tell me to go to hell and never return.

Yours,

William


	5. Part 5: And in the End

**Part 5: ****And in the End**

_June 1940.__ Meryton, Kent._

"Lizzy! He's come!"

It took a full five seconds for Elizabeth to realize that her sister was, of course, talking about Charles. It was a glorious five seconds, enough time to imagine Darcy, in his uniform, a little ragged maybe and his face unshaven, but in essentials much as he ever was, standing in the hallway downstairs, waiting for her to come down. When she finally realized this was not true, she felt ill. Ill at the thought of never seeing him again, of never hearing his voice again. Of never having his dark, serious eyes upon her again. How had she been so blind? He had to come back. Not because she needed to apologize to him. Not because she had to let him know she did not hate him anymore. He had to come back because she loved him.

Jane, too wrapped up in her own excitement to see the turmoil her sister was experiencing, rushed forwards and embraced her, tears in her eyes.

"Oh Lizzy, he's alive! I can't believe it! I was so afraid for him and now he's back! I did not know such happiness existed!"

Elizabeth felt numb in the face of her sister's jubilation. Charles was back. It was a good thing. The best thing. So why couldn't she feel more elated?

"He's at the hospital. Charlotte called just a few minutes ago. She'd been working when they'd brought him in. Forty-seven men crammed in Mr. Long's little fishing boat, can you believe it?"

Forty-seven men. Perhaps he'd been one of them and Jane just didn't know it? And even if he hadn't, there had been hundreds of other boats he could've been on. So enough with this ridiculousness. He was fine. Surely he was.

"Lizzy, will you come with me? I'm sure papa will let us take the car and…"

Elizabeth smiled, squeezing her sister's hands.

"Of course I will."

Two weeks passed and a pattern developed. Every day, after their daily chores were finished, Elizabeth would cycle with Jane to the hospital to see Charles. They did not drive after that first night, partly because of the petrol rationing but mostly because, on that first night, Elizabeth had very nearly killed them both.

In the beginning of the war, a blackout had been issued by the government, in order to make it more difficult for the enemy bombers to find their targets. Unfortunately, the enemy bombers were not the only ones suffering from the lack of light. All around the country people were dying in traffic accidents. And on that first night, due to the poor vicinity but also to the fact that Elizabeth, in their hurry to get to the hospital, had been driving much too fast, Elizabeth and Jane Bennet had very nearly become the latest victims of the blackout policy, mere seconds away from being crushed by a lorry they had encountered unexpectedly in the darkness. The girls never mentioned anything about this to their parents, but it was silently agreed between them that driving was no longer an option.

Seeing Charles for the first time had been a shock to them both. It had been long past proper visiting hours, but Charlotte had snuck them in anyway. Elizabeth thought she would never forget the way Charles had looked, pale as a ghost, his chest and left arm wrapped in bandages. It was difficult to believe he was the same laughing, easy-going boy she had known a year ago. Shrapnel, Charlotte had told them, from some sort of a bomb or a shell. The wounds were badly infected but the doctors suspected there was no immediate danger.

On the first night he did not open his eyes, but the next day he was awake when they arrived. Tears of joy and words of love were exchanged and Elizabeth felt very much the intruder in the picture. But she could not stop herself from going. Bingley was her only connection to Darcy, and seeing him get better by the day gave her hope that somewhere in another hospital Darcy would be doing the same.

After the first week Bingley had already been able to sit up and Elizabeth had finally gathered up the courage to ask about Darcy. It was then that Bingley had told them about the days of the evacuation. Elizabeth, imagining Darcy carrying his friend, had been unable to stop the tears from coming. Jane had been surprised by her sister's strong reaction, Charles on the other hand had looked anything but surprised. He had taken her hand in his in a comforting gesture and said:

"Don't worry, Lizzy, I'm sure he's fine. He'll be here any day now, brooding about in his usual manner, boring holes in you with his eyes."

But he didn't come. Two weeks went by without a word and Elizabeth grew more anxious by the day. It was not until on the third week after Bingley's return that something finally happened.

As the war progressed, several of Mr. Bennet's employers had had to leave to join the army, leaving the farm short of workers. Producing meat was an important part of the war effort – everything was rationed and, after German U-boats had started to attack British supply ships, the nation had to rely more and more on its domestic supplies. To keep the farm running, Elizabeth and Jane were helping their father the best they could.

One afternoon, as Elizabeth, wearing dirty overalls, her hair wrapped in a sweat-stained yellow scarf, was walking towards the house, she noticed an imposing black car parked in the front drive. As she got closer, she saw a window rolling open and heard an imperious female voice:

"You there! Are you Elizabeth Bennet? I demand to talk to you at once!"

- - -

_June 1940. London._

Darcy was awakened by two voices that seemed to be coming from a great distance. He tried to open his eyes but his lids felt heavy and he soon gave up the effort. He couldn't recognize either voice. Where was he?

"I heard he was carrying another man the whole day," said one of the strange voices.

"Can you imagine? With that leg?" replied the other.

Before Darcy could hear anything more, he drifted back to unconsciousness. The next time he awoke, it was due to a burning pain in his leg. The voices were present again.

"Look at that. What do you think?"

"I don't think we have much of a choice."

"I heard his family should be coming, perhaps we should wait for them. His aunt, apparently, is someone important."

Determined, Darcy tried to open his eyes again, this time with more success. At first he could see nothing but light and then the room seemed to be swirling around him. Through a haze he could see that two people were hovering somewhere above him, an older man and a young, dark-haired woman. His mouth felt parched and the word broke on his lips:

"E-Elizabeth?"

Later – if it was the same day or the next, he could not say – Darcy heard voices again, and this time ones he recognized. Slowly, he forced his eyes open and tried to adjust to the light. After a while, the swirling finally ceased and he was able to look around. He saw the white ceiling high above him and, turning his head, other beds like his, full of other men like him. He was in a hospital. The voices, he realized, were not coming from the room but from the hallway outside.

"No! I will not allow it!" He would recognize his aunt's commanding tone anywhere.

"Forgive me madam, but there are no other options." The same voice he had heard earlier.

"Is he awake?"

"No. He drifts in and out of consciousness. You must understand, he's in a very bad condition. We must act immediately."

"Has he asked for us?"

"No, madam. As I said, he's rarely conscious. The only word he's said is "Elizabeth". He keeps repeating it in his sleep. Is she a family member?"

"She most certainly is not. The poor boy is probably just delirious from the fever. Calling some stranger's name when he should be calling for his family."

"I know who she is." A third voice chimed in, a lilting, girly voice. Georgiana.

"What do you mean, child?" His aunt didn't sound pleased with this information. Darcy desperately hoped Georgiana would say nothing more. No such luck.

"He's asking for Elizabeth Bennet, a girl he met last summer. He's written to me about her. I think he's in love with her."

"What?" Darcy cringed as his aunt's voice rose an octave. "What girl? How come this is the first time I'm hearing of this? I demand to know everything!"

His aunt's tirade was cut short by the stern voice Darcy guessed belonged to a doctor.

"Madam, I'm sure this is neither the time nor the place for that conversation. Would you like to see him before we begin?"

The door opened before Darcy had time to prepare himself. In walked a grey-haired, middle-aged man, a friendly smile spreading on his face as he noticed Darcy was awake, followed by his aunt.

"Good day, young man, I'm glad to see that you're awake. I'm Dr. Lucas."

Before Darcy had time to reply, his aunt barged past the doctor.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy! I demand that you explain yourself to me at once!"

Darcy opened his mouth only to realize it was so dry he could barely speak. He looked at the doctor pleadingly.

"W-water?" His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

The reply came from behind his aunt's back in a familiar, shy voice. "I'll get it."

A smile spread on Darcy's face as his sister stepped towards him with a shy smile of her own. She looked so different, so much taller than the last he'd seen her, almost a year ago, a few days before he'd left to France. She seemed to hesitate at first but then, in one swift move, she threw herself towards him and Darcy found himself in a tight embrace. His every muscle hurt and he was too tired to lift his hands to return her embrace, yet he was happy. It had been too long since he'd last seen his sister.

Finally releasing him, Georgiana reached for the pitcher on the table next to the bed, pouring a little water into a glass. With a loving look on her face, she lifted it carefully on her brother's lips.

"Oh Will, I've missed you so much."

The moment was interrupted by the exasperated voice of his aunt.

"Yes, yes, we're all glad to see you, boy. But a report of a most alarming nature has just reached me and I want you to contradict it at once!"

Darcy cleared his throat, turning his head towards his aunt.

"It's good to see you, Aunt Catherine."

"Well, what have you to say for yourself? Have you been gallivanting with some girl behind my back? When you know it was the dearest wish of your late mother that you'd marry Anne when she becomes of age?"

"Aunt…"

"Is it not enough that you left us to go traipsing around Europe in an attempt to be some sort of a hero? You don't know the worries we've suffered because of you! And now they're going to cut off your leg and then what shall become of us? My nephew, the son of George and Anne Darcy, a cripple? This is absolutely intolerable!"

Darcy felt the blood drain from his face. He vaguely registered that both Georgiana and the doctor had turned towards his aunt with horrified expressions on their faces. A wave of nausea washed over him and he felt faint. They were going to cut off his leg?

- - -

_3 __August, 1940. Meryton, Kent._

Elizabeth sat on the beach, her eyes on the waves. She shivered as a cold gust of wind caught her hair, and wrapped herself tighter in her coat. Grey clouds were gathering in the horizon, it would rain soon. No matter. It had been two months since Charles returned and she'd still had no word from Darcy. She knew he was in London, his aunt's visit had revealed that much. And she was fairly sure he'd been in touch with Charles, but he'd been so uncomfortable whenever she'd tried to ask him about it that she had finally stopped pestering him.

After his aunt's strange visit, Elizabeth had been sure that he'd arrive soon. She had been so livid, so full of accusations towards Elizabeth for stealing her nephew away. Surely she wouldn't have bothered to come at all if she hadn't been sure that there was something to worry about? Elizabeth hadn't been in the least intimidated by his aunt. Arts and allurements indeed. The more his aunt had demanded that she promise to never enter into an engagement with her nephew, the more staunchly she had refused her. She had almost laughed out loud when she'd realized the formidable lady had used a very similar phrasing Darcy had anticipated she'd use if she ever met Elizabeth. _Heaven and Earth, a pig farmer's daughter? Is the great house of Pemberley to be so disgraced? _After his aunt had left, Elizabeth had felt almost giddy for a couple of days. Every time she had heard someone at the door, she had run downstairs to see if it was him. But he had not come.

Elizabeth did not know what to think. All year long he had been all she could think about. At first in anger, then in confusion and now, finally, in love. Had she been mistaken? Had she imagined more between them than there really was? Could he have changed his mind? Forgotten her? No. Her hand reached to touch the letter that lay hidden in her pocket. No one could write such a letter and then just forget. But why didn't he come? Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden sound of footfalls on the gravel, followed by someone muttering a curse under their breath.

"Bloody crutches."

Elizabeth froze as she recognized the familiar voice. Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she got up, afraid to turn around, sure that her imagination was playing another trick on her. When she finally turned, she realized it was doing no such thing. The scene before her she could never have imagined. A little way from her stood Darcy, leaning shakily on one crutch while trying to pull the other free from between two rocks. He was wearing a brown suit. The other leg of his trousers had been cut and sown neatly closed under the knee where his leg seemed to end. No, she could never have imagined that.

"Darcy?" her voice was shaky.

He stilled for a moment. Then, with one swift yank he pulled the crutch free, faltering momentarily before he found his balance again. Turning towards her, he gave her a hesitant, lopsided smile.

"I wish you would call me William."

She swallowed, feeling the tears coming. He waited, holding his breath.

"William."

It was no more than a whisper, but it was enough for him. Placing the crutches carefully, he slowly came closer to her, until he was just a few inches from touching her. He inhaled her scent, mixed with the scent of the sea. She was so beautiful, eyes closed, her chest heaving, the wind playing in her hair. It felt so strange. All those times he had imagined her and now she was here, with him, real and breathing. His heart ached to touch her, to feel the soft skin he'd imagined touching a thousand times. Like in a dream, he leaned towards her until finally, his nose touched her forehead. She trembled as she felt his breath on her face.

"Elizabeth…" he whispered.

She did not move. Slowly, he brushed her forehead with his lips, the corner of her eye, the soft, cool skin of her cheek.

"You got my letter."

He heard her sharp intake of breath as his lips grazed her earlobe.

"Yes…"

And then, suddenly, the moment was over and she jerked backwards, lifting her eyes to meet his. To his horror, he saw anger, a familiar coldness he remembered only too well. Darcy shuddered as he remembered the last time he had seen it. _You, sir, are the last man in the world I would ever marry. _This could not be happening.

Elizabeth, the agony and desperation of all those days she had waited for him, knowing he was in London, suddenly filling her, stepped away from him, her voice full of accusation when she asked:

"Why? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Darcy, panicked that he was ruining everything once again, staggered forward, his other crutch falling to the ground as he reached to grab her arm. He wobbled a little, trying to balance on the one crutch left, afraid to lean on her too much.

"Elizabeth, please.."

Her eyes were defiant but she didn't try to detach herself.

"If I hadn't heard from other people, I wouldn't have known if you were alive or dead!"

Darcy looked at her with pleading eyes, his voice choking with emotion.

"Elizabeth, I'm so very, very sorry. I- I didn't know how to tell you. My own aunt called me a cripple. I saw the pity in people's eyes when they looked at me. I couldn't bear the idea of you seeing me like that, lying in that hospital bed, looking at me with that same pitying expression that seemed to follow me everywhere."

"Do you really think I would've cared?"

"Elizabeth, look at me! I'm broken. I'm never going to run again, I can't even stand up without these bloody crutches. I'm never going to be the man I was before I left."

Darcy felt ill. This was going horribly, horribly wrong.

"Do you truly think me so shallow then?" she cried, exasperated "That I would stop loving you simply because you've been injured?"

Darcy froze at that, his heart skipping a beat. He looked at her carefully, afraid he was mistaken once again. It could not be true, could it? But he had to ask.

"Elizabeth… You are too generous to trifle with me. Does that mean, I mean, did you just say you love me?"

Elizabeth looked at the man before her and slowly felt all her anger melting away as she saw the look in his eyes, at the same time desperate and hopeful. _Enough_, she thought, _enough with this misery_.

An impish smile spread on her face as she replied:

"I do. Most ardently."

- - -

_15 January, 1941. Pemberley, Derbyshire._

William Darcy stepped over the threshold of the old gamekeeper's cottage in Pemberley, his laughing wife carefully balanced on his arms. Around him the world was going mad, yet he had never felt as happy as he did this day, his wedding day. Tomorrow he could worry about Hitler and his bombs, but today was his, his and Elizabeth's alone.

There had been a small ceremony in Meryton's chapel that morning, with only Elizabeth's family, the Bingley siblings – one delighted, the other not so much – and Georgiana present. At Georgiana's urging, Darcy had written to Aunt Catherine as well, asking her and Anne to come for the wedding, but there had been no reply. Another absentee, equally little missed by the wedding party, was Elizabeth's cousin, Bill Collins, who had written a long letter to Elizabeth's father, deeply offended about the affair, both for the sake of himself and for the sake of Darcy's aunt who, it had turned out, was the very same Lady Catherine de Bourgh who had urged Mr. Collins to reconnect with the Bennets in the first place.

Afterwards in Netherfield, Bingley, on a day's leave from his new post at an RAF airbase not far from Meryton, had come to the newlyweds with a mischievous look on his face, with Jane and Georgiana in tow.

"You know, Georgiana tells me that Pemberley is beautiful this time of year."

Darcy and Elizabeth had never thought of a honeymoon, the time being what it was, but it turned out that Charles, Jane and Georgiana had. At Georgiana's suggestion, they had asked Mrs. Reynolds, the old housekeeper of Pemberley who now lived in a nearby village, to air out and prepare the old little cottage for the newlyweds. She had agreed with pleasure, glad that some happiness seemed finally to have found its way towards the Darcy siblings. So off they went, in Bingley's old Wolseley, packed with two suitcases, enough food for a weekend trip and all the petrol they had got their hands on. Bingley had grinned, saying he was fairly sure it would be enough for the drive to Derbyshire and back. As if he knew anything about cars.

Elizabeth shrieked as Darcy wobbled a bit, still uncomfortable with the prosthesis attached to his leg. It would take time to get used to it. Time and practice. And a lot of pain, apparently. But he had been finally able to get rid of the crutches, at least for the most part.

"Please, love, you don't have to do this," Elizabeth said, seeing him wince every time their weight shifted on his injured leg.

"Yes I do. All those weeks I practiced with this ghastly excuse for a leg, I thought only of this moment. What sort of a husband would I be, not being able to carry my bride into our home?"

Elizabeth laughed at this, looking pointedly around the lovely, but small cottage that consisted mainly of two rooms.

"You know I don't ask for much, but you think _this_ is going to be our home? Where is Georgiana going to sleep? Under the kitchen cupboard?"

Darcy pretended to think for a moment. "I'm pretty sure she's slim enough to fit in the chimney, there's plenty of space there."

After they had settled in, Darcy took Elizabeth for a little walk towards the main house, telling her stories of his childhood, describing the magnificent home he had loved so much, in such detail that Elizabeth felt she could almost see it, in place of the black ruins that stood at the bottom of the little valley. Someday, it would be there again. Their home.

When it started to get dark, they returned to the cottage, hanging heavy black fabrics over the few windows. No enemy bomber would disturb their wedding night. In the darkness of the cottage, the only light coming from the fireplace and a few candles, Darcy felt suddenly nervous. How was he to proceed? What if she was repulsed by his stump of a leg? He knew it was a ridiculous thought, he had been an idiot to hide his injury from her to begin with. Yet he was afraid. He could not help but feel less of a man because of it.

Elizabeth, already familiar with the turns of her new husband's mind, saw his hesitation. Stepping closer, she intertwined her fingers with his, turning towards the bedroom.

"Come, husband."

Elizabeth placed a candle on a little drawer that stood in the corner and turned towards her husband, smiling. Darcy swallowed as he felt her delicate fingers on the buttons of his shirt. He felt his hands shaking, as he slid off her cardigan and started fumbling with the buttons in the back of her dress. Elizabeth was faster and Darcy's shirt was soon discarded carelessly on the floor. He trembled as he felt her warm hands slip beneath his undershirt, traveling over his ribs in a feather-light touch, slowly lifting the shirt upwards.

Satisfied to have finally reached the last button, Darcy carefully slid Elizabeth's dress on the floor, revealing a simple, ivory silk slip. Lifting his hand, he then helped Elizabeth to pull off his undershirt. Both sighed in pleasure as Elizabeth wrapped her hands around Darcy's torso, pressing her soft cheek against his warm, naked chest. Darcy let his hands travel over his wife's slender figure, pressing her closer to him. He paused, however, when he felt her hands fumbling with his belt and reached his hands to stop her.

"Elizabeth…"

She lifted her face towards his, her brow knit in exasperation.

"William, stop it. I love you."

He took her face between his hands, kissing her softly.

"I love you, my wife."

The kiss turned hungrier when he felt her hands again, undoing his belt, fumbling with the zipper, pulling his trousers down along with his underwear. Not breaking the kiss, she pushed him towards the bed until he was forced to sit down on the edge. With a loving smile, she kneeled in front of him and he watched, unconsciously holding his breath, as she pulled his trousers completely off and lightly let her hand travel over his artificial leg, until she reached the straps that were keeping it in place. Undoing them, one by one, she pulled the leg off and carefully set it down on the floor. Her hair fell down on his thigh as she bent down and pressed a feather-light kiss on the scar where his leg ended.

"I love you, William Darcy. Every single bit of you. Always."

Suddenly overcome with emotion, he slipped his hands under his wife's arms and pulled her to his lap, cradling her in his arms. He pressed his lips on her forehead, inhaling her scent. His heart was so full of happiness that it ached. He had survived. He had come back. And she loved him. He was home.

**The End**

_author's note: so, that's it __for this little attempt at a what-if. i might tweak it a little at some point, or maybe write a few vignettes if i come up with something, but in essentials, it's finished. i know it got a little mushy, but i thought they deserved it, after all the agony:) i thank you so much for reading my story, and for all the encouraging comments i've had. one last review would be greatly appreciated;)_


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